The Rookie

4. THE TEAM

QUENTIN SPENT two days at the Combine, but experienced nothing as arduous as the initial test, or as disturbing as his exam with Doc. League officials continued to test his reflexes, his strength and his endurance. The initial exam created a baseline of his physical capabilities. Subsequent tests further developed that analysis, and were combined with extensive measurements of intelligence, analytical thinking and mental reaction time. Meal trays slid through a slot in his cell walls, three times a day, the same time every day. The best of that food tasted like a bland nothing, the worst like some kind of rancid sawdust. He ate it anyway. Quentin wondered if the food would be like this on the Krakens’ team bus — the thought made him shudder. He wanted some good old-fashioned Nationalite cooking.

After his last test, a holographic video game that had him slapping colored balls in a pre-described pattern as fast as his hands could move, Quentin returned to his cell to find new clothes laid out on his metal bunk. Loose fitting sweat pants and a sweatshirt, new Nike football shoes and socks, all in the orange-and-black colors of the Ionath Krakens. A orange-and-black bag sat next to the clothes, containing a second set of sweats and the clothes he wore when he arrived at the Combine. The last item, the one that really caught his attention, was an Ionath Krakens jersey.

A jet-black jersey, it had an orange “10” with white trim on the front and the back. He was glad to see he’d keep his old number from the Raiders. Orange, black and white Krakens logo patches were sewn onto each shoulder. A “Kraken” was a huge oceanic predator native to Quyth, the Concordia’s capitol planet. As long as two-hundred feet, with a twenty-foot-wide tail and six tentacles that ended in sharp, jagged hooks, the Kraken was a vicious hunter. Quentin thought it a fitting nickname for a football team, much better than, say, the scientific-based names of League of Planets teams like the Wilson 6 Physicists or the Satirli 6 Explorers.

This is it. I’m on my way. I’ll be on every holotank in the freakin’ galaxy. My parents will find me for sure.

A buzz sounded from the speakers, followed by the computer voice.

[ATTENTION PROSPECTS. GARB YOURSELVES IN THE CLOTHES PROVIDED, AND WHEN YOUR DOOR OPENS CARRY YOUR BAG AND TAKE ONE STEP OUTSIDE. YOU WILL BE GUIDED TO YOUR TEAM REPRESENTATIVE AND TAKEN TO TRAINING CAMP]

Quentin quickly removed the sweat-stained yellow body suit and stepped onto the mesh circle. A nearly invisible cloud of tiny machines flew up from the mesh like a hazy fog. He moved slowly, raising his arms, lifting his feet, letting the nannites reach his every nook and cranny. The tiny, tingling machines scoured his skin, gobbling up every piece of dirt and dust, scrubbing away sweat and grime. While effective, the nannites did not offer the pleasure of a steaming water shower.

In less than a minute, the cloud disappeared, fading back into the metal mesh. Quentin couldn’t contain his excitement as he put on his new team clothes. Tier Two or not, he felt a surge of pride as he slipped on the orange and black. This was his team now, the team he would lead to victory.

The door to his cell hissed open. Quentin hurriedly pulled the sweatshirt on over his jersey, grabbed the bag, and stepped outside. Up and down the hall stood smiling young men with similar clothes, but all in different colors — Alonzo in the red and blue of the Earthlings, Olaf in the grey-on-black stripes of the Klipthik Parasites, a player in the cherry-red dots of the Satah Air-Warriors, and another in the multi-shaded purple of the Sky Demolition, a team in the Quyth Irradiated Conference along with the Krakens. There were far fewer players than Quentin had seen the first day. By his rough estimate, around thirty percent of them were gone. He wondered what fate awaited those men — either an ignoble ride home for a trivial offense, surgery and prison for any removable mods, or possibly they had already been executed.

Boss One fluttered through the hall. “You have all passed the Combine. You will now join your team representative. Be aware that other species may be joining you at this point. It is a crime under Creterakian law to use racial insults against other species, and that species-based crimes such as assault result in far harsher penalties than the same crime against a member of your own species. Intolerance of other species is not allowed under Creterakian law.”

Boss One fluttered to his perch.

The voice once again came over the loud speaker. [TEXAS EARTHLING PROSPECTS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

A blue line glowed on the floor. Alonzo and a lanky black-skinned man, probably a quarterback, walked down the hall.

Alonzo waved. “Good luck, Quentin. I hope I see you in the playoffs.”

[SHORAH CHIEFTAIN PROSPECTS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

Three men wearing green dots on black walked to the end of the hall. All three were obviously quarterbacks, and Quentin knew two of them would probably open their lockers in a week to find a ticket home — only one would make the cut.

[IONATH KRAKENS, FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE]

Quentin stepped out. For a second, he thought he was the only one in orange and black, but another man fell in line behind him. Quentin hadn’t seen him during the combine nor did he recognize the face. The man wore number 26.

Quentin followed the blue line, his new teammate right behind him. Two hallways later, an airlock hissed open and he found himself on a empty deck in the landing bay. The deck had four doors — the eight-foot high one that Quentin had just walked through, another just like it, a narrower one twelve feet high, and one ten feet high and eight feet wide.

The view port showed that the deck’s sealed airlock connected to a hundred-foot-long shuttle, an older model but neatly trimmed out in orange and black. Five Creterakian guards waited there, flittering about, first in the air, then hopping on the floor, then hanging from the ceiling, never staying still.

“I am Boss Seven,” the lead Creterakian said. “Line up on the blue line.” At his command, a blue line appeared on the deck, perpendicular to the airlock. Quentin did as he was told. He turned to number 26, his new teammate, a burly, thick-chested man with legs the size of sonic cannons. He had dark, yellowish skin and a curly beard that hung to his chest.

“Quentin Barnes,” Quentin said, offering his hand.

“Yassoud Murphy,” the man said, shaking Quentin’s hand. Quentin finally recognized the man’s face — Yassoud had broken the Tier Three rushing record in the Sklorno league and led his team to the championship of the Tier Three tournament.

“Glad to have you aboard,” Quentin said. “I saw highlights of your performance in the finals.”

Yassoud nodded. “Yeah, thanks. That was a pretty good game. I cleaned up on the point spread on that one.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You bet on your own game?”

“Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “Everyone bets in the Sklorno leagues. What, you never bet on your own game?”

“Not on your life.”

“Well, you should,” Yassoud said. “There’s money to be made if you know the odds. There’s bets for everything in the GFL, man. Take me for example, did you know the odds of me making it through the season without serious injury are three-to-five?”

“That’s not very good.”

“Not very good? Are you crazy? Three-to-five is great for a rookie. I’m only here because the Krakens third running back caught Fenkel Fever from some girl on Earth. He’s out for the season. That means I’m third string, so I won’t see a whole lot of action playing behind Mitchell Fayed and Paul Pierson. But then again, you know how frequently running backs get hurt in this league. Everyone except Fayed, anyway — that guy can take more hits than a battle cruiser. They don’t call him ‘The Machine’ for nothing.”

“What are my odds to start, about even?”

Yassoud laughed. “Start? Hardly. Odds are three-to-one that you don’t even make it through the season before they ship you back to the Purist Nation.”

Quentin felt anger instantly overtake him. “That’s bull.”

“Nope,” Yassoud said. “It’s not. Three-to-one.”

“Why the hell is that?”

“You’re a Nationalite,” Yassoud said. “You’ve probably never met other species face to face, let alone played with them. Did you know that only twenty percent of Purist Nation rookies make it through their first season?”

Quentin shook his head. He’d had no idea his people held such a dismal success rate.

Yassoud continued. “It’s true. You backwater jokers usually can’t handle the inter-species dynamics. Hell, I’ve got a thousand on you dropping out before the season is half over.”

Quentin paused a moment, trying to control his anger. “Then you made a big mistake.”

Yassoud shrugged. “We’ll see. You win some, you lose some.”

Quentin started to speak when the twelve-foot-high airlock door hissed open. Two Sklorno stepped onto the deck. Quentin had seen them on the net before, but never in person. They were tall, probably nine feet apiece — twelve long feet, if you counted the tail that extended past their legs. Translucent chitin covered black skeletons and ghostly images of semi-translucent internal organs. They reminded Quentin of full-body Human X-rays he’d seen in his childhood schoolbooks. Coarse black fur jutted out at every joint.

Their legs practically screamed speed and leaping. Translucent two-foot segments, folded back like a grasshopper’s legs, ended in a thick pad of a foot with five long, splayed toes.

The legs supported a slender body-stalk that curved backwards like a bow. Two long arms — coils of translucent, boneless muscle three feet long — jutted out from three-quarters of the way up the trunk, in the approximate position where a Human female’s breasts would be. Each Sklorno wore a orange-and-black jersey, with the numbers “81” and “82,” respectively, on the trunks below their coiled arms.

Even though he’d seen Sklorno heads a few times on the Web, they still took some getting used to. Two curled raspers hung at the top of the body-stalk, just below the head, partially covered by a chitinous chin-plate. When unrolled, the raspers reached to the floor. Hundreds of tiny teeth coated each rasper — they could tear through most anything. Back in the Wartimes, stories abounded that the Sklorno ate their enemies. Humans were supposed to be a particular favorite.

The head itself was nothing more than a softball-sized block of oily, coarse black hairs. Sklorno heads didn’t require a lot of volume, as the brain was located in a long column on the back of the trunk. Four boneless eyestalks, each a pebbly, deep magenta, jutted from the furry black ball. The eyestalks moved independently, like intelligent snakes on the head of the mythical Medusa.

Boss Seven shouted something in the high-pitched click-and-squeal Sklorno language. The Sklorno walked up to the blue line, eyestalks waving as they examined every angle of the flight deck. Quentin fought down a wave of revulsion. He felt grateful the two wore jerseys — otherwise, there was no way to tell them apart.

Number 81 stood on Quentin’s right side, and Number 82 stood to the right of Number 81. Number 81’s raspers rolled out, wet with saliva. A thin strand of drool dangled from the left rasper, wetly swinging down the eight feet to the floor.

“You are Quentin Barnes?” Its voice sounded like a combination of bird whistles, but Quentin had no problem understanding the words. He nodded in acknowledgement. It lowered itself; rear legs folding up like a grasshopper’s. In that position, it stood just under six feet tall, and actually looked up at Quentin.

“I am Denver,” the Sklorno said. It used its tentacle-arm to point at the other. “This is Milford.” Another string of drool dripped down from Denver’s left rasper. Quentin fought the urge to turn away.

“You are great thrower,” Milford said. “The Sklorno people watch you on the net. I am looking forward to catching many passes thrown by you.”

“No, I am looking forward to catching many passes thrown by you,” Denver said. “I will catch majority of passes.”

Milford turned suddenly and stood tall, extending to a full nine feet. “No! I will catch majority of his passes!”

Denver also stood, eyestalks waving wildly, tentacle-arms whirling in a threatening pattern. “No! You will be on the sidelines watching me catch passes!”

Milford’s body began to shake, sending streamers of drool flying across the flight deck. The boneless arms stretched back, as if to strike at Denver, then suddenly five Creterakians brandishing entropic rifles flew between the two Sklorno.

“Cease hostilities!” Boss Seven said loudly. “Cease or you will be deported before you can report to your team.”

As quickly as the flare-up started, it ceased. Denver and Milford sat down on their tails. They twitched and moved and squeaked, just a little, as if neither was capable of sitting perfectly still or remain perfectly quiet. Their ever-moving eyestalks flittered in all directions.

“You must be one sexy guy,” Yassoud said quietly. “The girls are fighting over you.”

“Girls? They’re females?”

Yassoud rolled his eyes. “Don’t they teach you backwater Purist idiots anything? You never took basic multi-species biology?”

Another nursery rhyme jumped into his brain.

The crickets have eyes on top of their head

Grab them and pull them they’ll soon be dead.

With Satan’s soldiers don’t ever be kind

They can’t see to sin if they are made blind.

Quentin shrugged. “I know how to kill them. That’s all the biology the Nation is concerned with.”

Yassoud laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. Sklorno females are the athletes, the soldiers. The males are these little two-foot-high things, kind of like a furry black ball.”

Quentin’s face wrinkled in surprise, remembering broadcasts showing the small creatures that seemed to throng around the tall Sklorno he now knew to be females. “Those things? There’s hordes of those. Those are the males? I thought those were pets.”

Yassoud shook his head. “Ah, the wonderful education system of the Purist Nation.”

Quentin again felt very stupid and hickish. The feeling made him want to hit someone. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve heard the word Denver. Isn’t that a city on Earth?”

“Yeah. The Sklorno are football crazy. Once they start playing the game, they take the name of an Earth city or region because Earth was the birthplace of football.”

“I didn’t know Sklorno could speak English.”

“English is the language of football,” Yassoud said. “You either understand it or you won’t get to this level. The Sklorno players spend several hours a day working on it, but it’s very difficult for them. Quyth have no problem, of course, and the Ki can understand it well enough even though they can’t speak it for crap.”

The ten-foot by eight-foot door hissed open, and a nightmare crawled out.

Like the Sklorno, Quentin had seen Ki only on the net. Ki were often cast in Purist Nation movies as bloodthirsty monsters, or tricksters out to collect Human souls. With movie-making technology that could make any imagined creature as real as a Human, however, everything on the net took on a sense of fantasy. This Ki looked like the movie creatures, but a holocast simply didn’t do the species justice.

Its twelve-foot-long, tube-shaped body bent upwards in the middle, giving it a six-foot long horizontal piece and a six-foot-high vertical piece. Bright orange skin covered with small dots of reddish-brown enamel covered the body. Six legs stuck out from the sides of the horizontal segment, each leg thick and just over four feet long. Two more limbs protruded from each side of the vertical body — these were shorter but thicker, with muscle rippling under the pebbled skin. Each upper-body limb ended in four stubby fingers.

Five glossy black eyespots surrounded the vertical body’s tapered point. Ki were well known for their 360-degree vision. At the very top of the tapered point was the vocal spout, a small cluster of wormlike tubes. Between the top sets of vertical arms was the thing that gave Quentin nightmares as a child — the Ki “mouth.” The mouth consisted of six short, thick, sharp black hooks in a hexagonal pattern. Inside the hex was a pinkish hole lined with row after row of triangular black teeth. He’d seen many movies where the upper arms would drag Human prey to the mouth. The hexagonal hooks dug into the screaming victim, pulling it tight, while the triangular teeth ripped out chunk after chunk after chuck — bite, swallow, bite, swallow.

What do I do if a Ki should attack?

I get behind him with my foot in his back

I bend him hard, his back gives a crack

Because the High One loves me, and I love him back

The Ki’s orange and black, four-sleeved jersey ran from the bottom of the vertical body to just under the horrific mouth. There was just enough room for a small number “93” on the chest.

Quentin shuddered as he pictured the creature tearing through an offensive line, multi-jointed arms wrapping him up and taking him down. This Ki had to weigh at least 580 pounds. The smell of rotting meat filled Quentin’s nose. His face wrinkled in disgust, and he waved his hand to clear away the odor.

“What is that stench?”

Yassoud laughed. “Better get used to it, that’s how Ki smell.”

Boss Seven barked out a command. The Ki language sounded hoarse, gravelly, guttural, and Quentin didn’t understand a word of it. The hulking Ki scuttled towards the blue line, its horizontal legs moving like a cross between an insect’s and an the oars of an old Greek warship.

Yassoud nudged Quentin. “That’s Mum-O-Killowe. He played in the Sklorno leagues. Had twenty-six sacks in a twelve-game season, another five in the playoffs.”

“You played against him?”

Yassoud nodded. “Yeah. You can’t imagine how hard that thing hits. And he has no concept of the difference between practice and a game, so don’t get on his bad side.”

Mum-O-Killowe stopped four feet from the blue line. He pointed his upper right arm straight at Quentin. The tubes of the vocal spout quivered as the nightmarish creature let out a long, barking sound. It then reared back and started lunging forward. Quentin had already taken two steps back before the Creterakian guards flew in front of Mum-O-Killowe, their entropic rifles aimed directly at his eyespots. The Ki stopped, turned his long body, and got on the blue line to the right of Milford.

“Too bad,” Yassoud said. “Looks like you’re already on his bad side.”

“Did you understand what he said?”

“Some of it. It seems your fame precedes you. He said something to the effect that he saw your championship game, and he prayed to the Ki gods that you were on another Tier Two team so he could cripple you.”

“Cripple me?”

“The Ki consider it a high point of honor to knock someone out of the game — maiming, dismembering and death are all acceptable methods. Now that you’re on the same team, and he’ll see you every day in practice, he figures he’ll cripple you for sure.”

“Oh this is just great.”

Yassoud laughed. “You know, if you want to put some money down that you won’t make it through training camp, I can put you in touch with my bookie.”

“Screw you.”

“Hey, I’m just saying you might as well come out of this with some money, if only to pay your prolonged hospital bills.”

Quentin turned and raised his fist, but Yassoud raised his hands, palms out in a defensive posture. His eyebrows rose high in mock surprise. “Hey now! Take it easy,” he said. “I’m just riding you — and if you throw that punch, you’re on the next ship back to the Purist Nation.”

Quentin lowered the fist and stared straight out from the blue line. “Just keep talking,” he said quietly. “You’ll get yours soon enough.”

The main airlock door, the one connected to the orange and black shuttle, hissed open. A pair of furry Quyth Leaders scurried out, one with jet-black fur that glistened under the landing deck lights, the other with unkempt yellow fur mottled with irregular brown stripes.

Two dangerous looking Quyth Warriors followed the Leaders, one about 300 pounds, the other a good-sized 375. Their carapaces were both painted in the wild reds and oranges of Quyth commandos, and each carried a five-foot long stun-stick. Quentin had read about Quyth Warriors in his history classes. They were one of the deadliest creatures in the galaxy: fast, strong and vicious. One-on-one, they were no match for trained Purist Nation soldiers, of course. At least that’s what the history books said. Standing this close to one, Quentin suddenly found himself wondering if his history books were more than a little bit colored by Holy Men’s propaganda.

The big warrior, Quentin was surprised to see, wore a Krakens jersey with the number 58 on the chest.

A Creterakian dressed in a blue vest inlaid with tiny, tinkling silver bells flew out of the airlock, did a pair of 360-degree circles, then fluttered in front of Mum-O-Killowe. The Creterakian barked something out in the Ki language, the Ki answered, and the Creterakian settled down on top of the bigger creature’s head.

Quentin leaned over to Yassoud. “What the heck was that all about?”

“Most Ki can’t speak Human or Quyth,” Yassoud said. “Creterakians can speak all languages, so they frequently act as interpreters.”

“Why is it dressed like that?” Quentin asked. “Is that some kind of an interpreter’s uniform?”

Yassoud chuckled softly. “He’s a civilian.”

“A… civilian? You mean it’s not in the military?”

“Let me guess, the Holy Men taught you that all Creterakians are mindless soldiers bent on exterminating all the other races?”

His hickish feeling cranked up another notch. “Well… yeah, that’s about right.”

Yassoud shook his head. “It’s amazing that such a backwater place can even function. Creterakians are just like everybody else, they’ve got a mostly civilian population along with the military.”

“Well I’ll be.”

“Just don’t trust them,” Yassoud said. “All the Creterakians that deal with Tier Two and Tier One are con men, or so I’m told.”

Quentin started to ask another question, but fell silent when the black furred Quyth Leader stepped forward.

“I am Gredok the Splithead. You are all now my property. You are rookies, you are nothing of importance. I own your contracts for this season, and have the final say on if you make the team or not.” He gestured to the yellow-furred Leader. “This is Hokor the Hookchest, coach of the Ionath Krakens. You will follow his instructions to the letter.”

Hokor stepped forward, his antennae plastered back flat against his skull.

“Training camp begins immediately. This shuttle will take you to the Touchback, our team bus, which is your home as long as you are with the Krakens. You will stow your gear, then report to position meetings where you will be given your study assignments. Once you have been shown how to operate the Kriegs-Ballok Virtual Practice System, you will report to the field for practice.”

Mum-O-Killowe barked out something unintelligible.

Want to learn more about the basics of American football? Hear the author give you info that will add to your enjoyment of The Rookie, at http://www.scottsigler.com/football.

“Shizzle, what does he want?” Hokor asked the blue-suited Creterakian.

Shizzle swooped down, his silver bells tinkling in time with each flap. “The great Mum-O-Killowe wants to know when he can begin to hit the Human Quentin Barnes.”

Quentin’s eyes widened with surprise. This giant Ki wanted to tear his head off.

“Tell him to shut up,” Hokor said. “And tell him he’ll only be told once.”

Shizzle relayed the command, then Mum-O-Killowe turned and strode towards Quentin, roaring sounds that rang obscene despite the language barrier.

Quentin turned to face him and crouched, mind instantly switching to game mode, looking for the best place to hit the 580-pound, 6-legged, 4-armed nightmare. The nursery rhyme said to go for its back, but he didn’t see a way around the long, muscular arms.

Quentin barely saw movement before the two Quyth Warriors were on Mum-O-Killowe. They both jabbed him with their staffs, resulting in a loud crackling sound and flickers of blue-white light. Mum-O-Killowe roared in pain. He turned and grabbed for the Quyth Warrior wearing the Krakens’ jersey, but the smaller creature danced back, effortlessly avoiding the wild grab, then jabbed the stun-stick into Mum-O-Killowe’s chest. Mum-O-Killowe sagged, then fell to the ground, a twelve-foot-long motionless blob.

The rookies stood in silence. The smell of ozone filled Quentin’s nostrils. The Quyth Warriors each grabbed one of Mum-O-Killowe arms and labored to drag him into the shuttle.

“Normally, we’d kick him off the team,” Hokor said, “but we’re short on defensive linemen and the season is only a week away. We’re not, however, short on wide receivers, running backs, or quarterbacks.”

Hokor walked down the blue line until he stood in front of Quentin. “Kneel down, Human, I want to look you in the eye.”

Quentin quickly looked at Yassoud, who nodded nervously. Quentin got on one knee, and still had to lean down to look straight into Hokor’s one big eye. He’d never seen a Quyth Leader — or any other alien, for that matter — this close up. Hokor’s eye wasn’t really clear, but a translucent light blue, filled with hundreds of green discs in a tight geometrical pattern. His fur was thick, each strand much thicker than a Human hair. The most disturbing physical aspect was the pedipalps, quivering things on either side of the mouth, as coordinated and well-developed as a Human arm. Quentin kept his cool, but it surprised him to feel the grip of a lifetime of Purist Nation teachings. Most of his people would be screaming right now, either with pure terror or righteous, murderous rage. He mostly viewed those people with contempt, so it shocked Quentin that he felt both emotions stirring up from somewhere so deep in his subconscious he hadn’t even known they existed.

But Quentin was on a mission. And his pure, unstoppable desire to play football at the highest levels ran far stronger than programmed ideology.

“As soon as practice starts, nobody is going to be there to stop him,” Hokor said. “You had better be ready to complete the offensive play when three of those things are coming at you, hoping to maim you, or if they get in a good shot just kill you outright.”

Quentin smiled. “Just give me the ball, Coach.”

Hokor’s antennae quivered once, then fell flat. “We’ll see, rookie.” He walked to the airlock door. “Krakens rookies, come aboard.”

DAN: Welcome back, sports fans, Dan Gianni here with Akbar Smith and our own football-legend-in-residence, Tarat the Smasher.

TARAT: Thanks, Dan.

DAN: So what are we going to talk about today?

AKBAR: As if there’s any question.

DAN: Baseball season is almost over, and to tell you the truth, with four player strikes in the past ten seasons, I really don’t think anyone gives a damn. It’s so boring!

AKBAR: I still like baseball.

DAN: Like I said, no one gives a damn. Intergalactic Soccer Association season is coming up, but that’s a little boring as well.

TARAT: Good sport, but the Sklorno have completely taken it over.

AKBAR: There are 1,012 players in that league, and all of them are Sklorno.

DAN: You can’t fight speed, not in soccer. But we all know one sport that caters to all species, and that’s only one week away.

TARAT: Nothing like finishing up Tier One football and rolling right into Tier Two.

DAN: That’s right, sports fans, we’re talking Tier Two football. The Jupiter Jacks captured the Tier One crown last week, with a thrilling 21–20 Galaxy Bowl win over the To Pirates. Don’t the rookies arrive in camp today?

AKBAR: That’s right, Dan. You know how I hate this system — the rookies only have one week in camp before the first game.

TARAT: But there is no way around that.

DAN: I know there’s no way around it, but it still sucks. I mean, some of these guys were playing in championship games only a few days ago!

TARAT: Trust me, not one of them is complaining.

DAN: Sure, no argument there, but take Quentin Barnes, for example, the quarterback of the Micovi Raiders of the PNFL. I mean he played the PNFL championship only a week ago, and in seven days he’ll line up for his first Tier Two game with the Ionath Krakens. That’s crazy!

AKBAR: What makes you think he’ll play a down? He’ll ride the bench for the first half of the season like most of the rookies.

DAN: You think? The Krakens have to get someone at quarterback who can win games.

AKBAR: Were you dropped on your head repeatedly as a child? Have you ever heard of the Krakens’ quarterback, some guy named Donald Pine?

DAN: He’s all washed up. He can’t win the big games.

AKBAR: He won two Galaxy Bowls!

DAN: Ancient history. He has choked in every big game in the past two seasons for the Krakens.

AKBAR: And you think some rookie is the answer?

DAN: Probably not, we all know quarterbacks from the Purist Nation don’t last. But Barnes probably doesn’t have to do much to be better than Donald Pine is right now.

AKBAR: You’ve got to be kidding me.

DAN: Look at the games, will ya? Last year the Krakens went 6–3 and missed the playoffs with a week-nine loss to Orbiting Death. Pine throws four interceptions. He gets pulled, and the number-two quarterback, Tre Peterson, dies four plays later. Pine goes back in and throws another interception.

AKBAR: Okay so that’s one game.

DAN: What about two seasons ago? Krakens kill eventual league champ Sala Intrigue 48–24. But they drop four games to teams with a combined record of 13–23. All of those games were upsets — Pine couldn’t win the games he’s supposed to win.

AKBAR: He’s not the only guy on the field, Dan.

DAN: Of course not. But look at Pine’s record since he won that last Galaxy Bowl back in 2676. You know how this game works — the blame falls on the quarterback. If it wasn’t for Mitchell Fayed, the Krakens would be nothing.

TARAT: I played against Fayed before I retired. That is the toughest Human I’ve ever seen. You hit him and hit him, and he just gets up and smiles.

DAN: That’s why they call him The Machine. Number forty-seven just keeps on running.

AKBAR: Can we get back on the subject of Donald Pine?

DAN: Look, Pine’s still a great quarterback, but in some games he just flat-out chokes.

AKBAR: So again, you’re going on record saying Quentin Barnes is the answer?

DAN: I didn’t say that. He’s a rookie. And a Purist Nation rookie at that. He’s never been hit by a Ki lineman, and never faced a blitz from a Quyth Warrior. If he lasts one season I’ll be surprised. Pine will start, as usual, Pine will lose the big games, as usual, and the Krakens will flail about in the middle of the pack, as usual.

THE SHUTTLE DISENGAGED from the airlock and shot away from the Combine. It felt cramped inside the small vehicle, which probably would have seated twelve Humans comfortably. The prone form of Mum-O-Killowe took up half the floor. The rest of the rookies took whatever seats they could find.

Within minutes, they approached the Touchback. It was only half the size of the starliner that had brought him from Micovi, yet much larger than Quentin had thought it would be. Perhaps an eighth of a mile long, over half the ship consisted of a clear dome covering a full-sized practice field, 100 yards long with 10-yard end zones, one painted orange, one painted black. Eighteen decks rose up all around the field, as if engineers had scooped out a large section of ship, put down the field, then sealed everything off with the clear dome. It seemed that from every deck, one would be only a short walk from a view of the practice field.

A large engine assembly sat behind the black end zone. The passenger decks, bridge and other ship constructs were on the opposite side, behind the orange end zone. Instead of the sleek, eye-pleasing lines of a passenger liner, the Touchback bore the blocky profile of a distinctly military vehicle. As the shuttle drew closer, Quentin recognized the tell-tale mounted spheres of weapon assemblies.

“High One… Are those gun mounts?”

Yassoud nodded. “Looks like a converted frigate. Couldn’t tell you what kind, though — I’ve never actually seen a warship, except in the movies.”

The sudden sound of rapidly tinkling bells accompanied by the heavy fluttering of wings erupted near their heads. Quentin instinctively ducked down to one knee, while Yassoud simply turned. Shizzle hovered, resplendent in his blue and silver suit.

“The Touchback is a converted Planetary Union Achmed-Class heavy-weapons platform,” the flying creature said in a tone as smooth as the voice-over for an intoxicant commercial. “Formerly known as the Baghavad-Rodina, a component of the famed Blue Fleet. Taken by Creterakian boarding parties in the battles of 2640. Temporarily used as a patrol craft. Mothballed in 2644. Purchased by Gredok the Splithead in 2665 under special license from the Creterakian Empire when he acquired the Ionath Krakens franchise.”

Quentin stood, feeling foolish for having ducked like a frightened child. The two Quyth Warriors stared at him, stock-still save for their pedipalps, which quivered in a sickening fashion. The two Sklornos, Denver and Milford, also stared at him, but seemed emotionless. He looked at Hokor and Gredok — he didn’t know much about Quyth Leaders, but he felt quite sure they were laughing at him.

“What’s the matter, Human?” Gredok asked, his pedipalps quivering. “Haven’t spent much time around Creterakians?”

Quentin felt his face flushing red. The Quyth Warriors weren’t moving, but their pedipalps quivered just like the Leaders’ — they were all laughing at him.

“Don’t sweat it,” Yassoud. “You get used to it. The Creterakian civilians love the game, you’ll see them all the time.”

“I am not used to beings being frightened of me,” Swizzle said. “Especially one that’s thirty times my mass.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Quentin said quickly. “You just startled me, that’s all.” He felt eager to change the subject. “I thought weapons were illegal on anything but System Police vessels and Creterakian military ships.”

Gredok stood and walked over, emanating confidence and control despite the fact that Quentin towered over him. “I don’t know what kind of news they show you in the ‘Nation, but piracy is still a major problem. The SP forces have cut it down quite a bit since they were implemented in ‘54, but it’s still out there. Since the league started in ‘59, five team busses have been destroyed by pirates — that’s an entire franchise, players, coaching staff, everything, instantly wiped out. Wreaks havoc on a league schedule. So GFL ships are allowed limited defensive weaponry. Nothing that would be a match for a Creterakian frigate, mind you, but it’s usually enough to fend off pirates.

The Touchback loomed large outside the view port. The shuttle banked sharply — Quentin and Yassoud each had to place a hand on the bulkhead to keep their balance. Quentin noticed that the Quyths, both Leaders and Warriors alike, instantly adjusted their weight and barely seemed to notice the sharp bank.

The shuttle slowed and docked. Quentin’s ears popped as the airlock hissed open. Gredok and Hokor led the rookies out, followed by the Warriors who dragged the still-unconscious Mum-O-Killowe by his front arms.

The airlock opened into an expansive landing bay covered by a fifty-foot high domed ceiling. The place looked fairly empty save for orderly rows of equipment and stacked metal crates. A handful of Humans, Sklorno, Ki, Quyth Leaders and Quyth Warriors walked forward to greet the rookies. A babble of strange languages filled the landing bay.

A huge, glowing hologram hung in the middle of the bay. It read: THE IONATH KRAKENS ARE ON A COLLISION COURSE WITH A TIER ONE BERTH. THE ONLY VARIABLE IS TIME.

A tall man eased out of the crowd and walked up to Quentin.

“Praise the High One for blessing your journey,” the man said in a traditional Purist greeting. “Welcome. I’m Rick Warburg, tight end.”

Warburg extended his hand, and Quentin shook it. He hadn’t expected to feel homesick, but he did, just a little, and he was surprised to feel relief at the sight of one of his countrymen. Warburg was tall, an even seven feet, and looked to weigh around 365 pounds. He had curly, deep black hair, light brown skin and the infinity forehead tattoo of a confirmed church member.

“Quentin Barnes, praise to the High One for bringing us together,” Quentin said in the traditional answer to Warburg’s welcome.

Warburg was nothing short of a national hero to the Purist Nation. He was one of twenty-nine Purist players among the top two Tiers, and all of them were quite famous within Nation space. When Quentin had been a child, twenty-odd Purist Nation players in the League sounded like a lot. Other than reporting scores, the only feature stories and highlights broadcast over the government network concerned Nation players, so Quentin had thought his Purist Nation heroes ruled the GFL. The truth, however, was that with 76 teams, each with a roster of 44, there were 3,344 players in the League. That meant that Purist Nation players took up less than one percent of league roster spots.

“It’s so good to see a Nationalite here,” Warburg said with a warm grin. “These sub-races can challenge the will of any man.”

“Uh-oh, there we go again with the sub-races chat.” A smiling, 6-foot-6 blue-skinned Human pushed through the crowd and extended his hand to Quentin. Despite the Nation’s limited GFL coverage, Quentin had no problem recognizing the man — Donald Pine, quarterback for the GFL Champion Jupiter Jacks in ‘75 and ‘76. Quentin found himself caught between a burst of hero worship and a sense of revulsion at touching blue skin. But that wasn’t who he was anymore — he shook Pine’s hand.

Pine smiled, his teeth a sharply white contrast against his blue skin and darker blue lips. “Warburg, you’ve always got such a friendly outlook on things.”

“The truth should never be blurred over, eh Pine?” Warburg said. He was also smiling, but there was nothing happy about it. “You were born this way, you know I don’t hold it against you.”

Pine laughed. “Well, let’s just hope that Quentin doesn’t hold it against me, either. I see he’s not wearing forehead makeup, so maybe he doesn’t think quite like you, eh?”

Warburg’s smile disappeared. “I’ve told you before, blue-boy, it’s not makeup, it’s a holy mark.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Pine said. “Yeah, you did tell me that. So sorry your Holy Holiness.”

Warburg nodded, his features melting into a dark, dangerous scowl. “One of these days, blue-boy, you won’t be the starter anymore.” Warburg tilted his head to indicate Quentin. “And that’s going to happen sooner than you think. And when it does, you and I are going to settle up. Quentin, I’ll see you at dinner.”

Warburg walked away.

“Charming fellow,” Pine said. “Not entirely indicative of all the Nationalites I’ve met, but not far from it, either.”

“He’s confirmed,” Quentin said, not sure if Pine’s comments were a slam on Warburg or on all Nationalites. “Confirmed Church members are rather set in their ways.”

Donald Pine nodded. “And I see you’re not confirmed. Does that mean you’ve got that ever-so-rare Purist Nation resource known as an open mind?”

Quentin shrugged. “I’m set in my ways, too. They might not be the same ways as Warburg.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Pine said with a smile. “It’s my duty to show you around the ship and get you ready for practice, give you any help you might need.”

As a teenager, Quentin had idolized Pine, watching pirated broadcasts of the Jupiter Jacks’ games, marveling in the man’s effortless skill. All Pine needed was enough time and he could dissect any secondary. But that was in the mid-70’s — recently, Pine’s star had fallen and fallen fast. After three straight losing seasons, the Jacks traded Pine to the Bord Brigands in 2680. He lasted only one season there, before the Krakens picked him up, hoping he would lead them back to Tier One. The Krakens were still hoping. Considering they had picked up a certain Quentin Barnes, that hope no longer seemed to hinge solely on Donald Pine.

“I don’t need any help,” Quentin said coldly. “I’ve learned to figure things out for myself.”

Pine’s smile faded, just a little, then returned as he shrugged. He waved another man over. “Suit yourself. Let me introduce you to another Krakens’ QB, Yitzhak Goldman.”

Yitzhak stepped forward and shook Quentin’s hand. At 6-foot-4, he was very short for a quarterback. He had the bleach-white skin of a Tower Republic native of the planet Fortress, along with equally white hair and eyebrows. The only things of any color were his deep black eyes. The irises were just as black as the pupils, giving the man an eerie, haunting stare.

“Welcome aboard,” Yitzhak said.

Quentin simply nodded. He’d seen Yitzhak play last year when Pine was out two weeks for knee replacement. Quentin had been less than impressed.

Through the flurry of meet-and-greet, a strange creature crawled forward. Quentin couldn’t help but take a step back — he’d never seen the like before. It resembled a Quyth Leader, or Warrior, or at four feet tall maybe something in-between. It had only one eye, which was much smaller than a Leader’s or a Warrior’s. The creature’s pedipalps were long, almost three feet long, and so thick they seemed like Human arms. It smelled like onions.

The creature reached out with one of the pedipalps and gently tried to take Quentin’s bag. Quentin turned his shoulder, pulling the bag slightly away. The demonic-looking creature made his skin crawl, but he concentrated on staying his ground, dead-set against repeating the embarrassment he’d felt when he hit the deck at the sound of Swizzle’s flapping wings.

“What’s the matter?” Pine asked. “Pilkie here will take your bag for you.”

“Pilkie?” Quentin said, never taking his eyes of the creature.

“It’s okay, Quentin,” Yitzhak said. “You look tense.”

Quentin looked at Yitzhak, then at Pine, then lifted the bag-strap off his shoulder and set it down on the deck. Without a sound, Pilkie grabbed the bag and walked towards a door at the edge of the landing bay.

Pine laughed. “You okay, boy? You act like you’ve never seen a Quyth Worker before.”

Quentin shrugged. “I haven’t.”

Pine and Yitzhak laughed, then stopped when they realized that Quentin wasn’t kidding.

“Sorry about that, Quentin,” Pine said, clapping Quentin on the shoulder. “I forgot you’re fresh off the Purist Nation. Come on, we’ve got a position meeting in twenty minutes. Hokor handles the quarterback meetings, and trust me, you do not want to be late.”

“So are there any other kinds of Quyth?” Quentin asked. “I’m getting kind of tired of surprises.”

“Just the females,” Yitzhak said. “But there’s none of those onboard. Females are sacred in Quyth culture. No non-Quyth are even supposed to lay eyes on them. Females never leave their home planets.”

“Can we see the field?” Quentin asked.

Pine nodded. “Right this way, kid.”

A central tunnel, large enough for heavy equipment, ran from the flight deck all the way to the other end of the ship. The tunnel, with its arched ceiling and curved walls, acted like a main highway — every thirty feet or so, smaller tunnels branched off at right angles, leading into the ship’s numerous sections. Quentin followed Pine straight down the main tunnel, until it opened up into the huge space that was the Krakens’ practice field.

The clear dome revealed the black expanse of space. Thousands of bright sparks glittered; the stars of the Milky Way Galaxy. Ten yards or so past the end zones and sidelines, the ship’s decks rose up eighteen levels high.

They walked onto the field, entering at the orange end zone. The surface had some give and felt a lot like the Carsengi Grass that covered most Purist Nation fields, but he could tell this was artificial. Hundreds of flat, circular, white creatures, each the size of a pancake, moved around the field. They moved slowly, but quickly scooted out of the way of approaching feet.

“I think you guys need to call an exterminator,” Quentin said.

“Those are clippers,” Yitzhak said. “This is nanograss, self-replicating mechanical cells that grow constantly to give us a good practice surface. The clippers are little robots that keep the nanograss at a constant height.”

“They ever get underfoot?”

Yitzhak shook his head. “Naw, they steer clear of anything that moves.”

As they walked past the 50-yard line, Quentin noticed that the white disks cleared out in front of them, then closed in behind as the Humans passed by. He looked around, trying to take it all in — this is where his destiny would start.

Just past the black end zone, the three men stepped aboard a lift. Pine pressed a button, and the lift rose swiftly to deck eighteen.

Quentin followed Pine down the hall. The orange walls complimented the white and black carpet. Most of the diverse furnishings — two seats each for the varying body styles of Quyth, Ki, Sklorno and Human — were also done in orange-and-black. The high ceiling allowed Human and Sklorno alike to pass in comfort. Holoframes covered the walls, showing great players from the 23-year history of the Ionath Krakens. Most holoframes, of course, depicted players or scenes from the Krakens’ Tier One Championship of 2665.

That had been the franchise’s heyday, back when quarterback Bobby “Orbital Assault” Adrojnik put together three fantastic seasons, culminating in the ‘65 title, a 23–21 thriller over the Wabash Wall. After that game, Adrojnik died in a bar fight under conditions most called “suspicious.” Krakens fans blamed Wabash supporters, or possibly even the Wabash owner herself. Gloria Ogawa, who had founded the Wall in the GFL’s inaugural season of 2659, was a known gangland figure in the Tower Republic and had not taken the loss well.

“This deck holds the Krakens’ corporate offices,” Pine said. “Communications with the league, archiving, marketing, network relations, stuff like that.” Pine looked at the famous holoframe of the smiling Adrojnik, held aloft by two Ki linemen, raising the Championship trophy high in one hand.

“Is that what you’re going to be kid?” Pine said quietly. “The next Adrojnik? The future of this franchise?”

Quentin shrugged. He’d never seen Adrojnik play. Sometimes you could score pirated games on Micovi, or on Buddha City, but for the most part the old historical GFL stuff just wasn’t available.

Pine grinned, looked at Quentin, and continued down the hall. “Yep, you could be the savior. What are you kid, twenty-one? twenty-two?”

“Nineteen,” Quentin said.

Pine’s eyebrows rose up. He looked at Yitzhak, who let out a low whistle and shook his head.

“Nineteen,” Pine said. “Kid, you play your cards right you could have a great career ahead of you.”

“Of course, that’s what the press said about Timmy Hammersmith in 2678,” Yitzhak said. “And Crane McSweeney in 2680, after Hammersmith washed out in just two seasons.”

Pine smiled and nodded, looking at Quentin the whole time. “Yeah, that’s right! But McSweeney didn’t last much longer. He might have developed into something big if he hadn’t died in the season opener against the Wallcrawlers in 2680. Rookie QBs just don’t seem to fare too well around here.”

“It seems veterans don’t fare too well, either,” Quentin said. He wasn’t going to put up with this rookie bull — he was no normal rookie, something they’d all find out soon enough. “They brought you in to finish the 2680 season, didn’t they, Pine? Two seasons at the helm, and the Krakens are still Tier Two.”

Yitzhak stopped and turned to face Quentin. “Hey, now you’d better watch yourself, rookie, you don’t — ”

Pine held up his left hand to stop Yitzhak, cutting the shorter man off in mid-sentence. Pine’s smile was no longer friendly, but that of someone who looks down on another.

“That’s a good point, Quentin,” Pine said. He held up his right hand. On his ring and index finger were two thick, golden rings, each set with dozens of sparkling rubies. Championship rings from 2675 and 2676. At the sight of the rings, Quentin felt his soul roil with pure envy, greed, and flat-out desire.

“You can have all the good points you want, rookie,” Pine said. “But until you prove it out on the field, it’s all talk. Until you’ve got one of these — ” Pine wiggled his fingers, letting the rubies catch the hall’s light — “I suggest you keep those good points to yourself.”

Quentin smiled graciously, flourished, and gave a half-bow. “Whatever you say, pops.”

Pine’s smile briefly faded to a glare, then he continued down the hall. Quentin felt the competitive fire building inside his brain. He couldn’t wait to get out on the field. He was the future of the Krakens, not this washed-up has-been. He’d learn what he could from this old man in the next week, before the old man got used to his new position: benchwarmer.

They turned into a large room, about fifty yards in diameter, with a clear dome open to the star-speckled blackness of space. The floor consisted of a silvery grid of small hexes, each only a centimeter or so wide. Just inside the door sat a long rack of footballs, built on a tilt so the balls would roll down and stop at a catch at the end.

“What is this?” Quentin bounced on his toes, feeling the hexes give slightly under his feet.

“This is the sim-room,” Pine said. “State-of-the-art in football technology.” He walked to the end of the rack and picked up a football. The other footballs rolled down the rack to fill the space.

“The Kriegs-Ballok Virtual Practice System,” Yitzhak said. “Gredok had it installed during the off-season.”

“Ship,” Pine called. “Grontak Stadium, night game.”

The clear dome shimmered with flashes of blue and silver, then it was gone, instantly replaced by a bright purple sky arching over a massive stadium. The room’s sound went from echoing silence to the sudden cacophony of 165,000 fans, mostly Quyth, screeching in their spine-rippling equivalent of a Human cheer.

Quentin spun around, suddenly disoriented by the purple sky, the thousands of fans swinging black, teal and white banners and flags, the steady, subdued roar of a crowd waiting between plays. A blazing sun hung almost directly over head, and a blue moon ringed with light red hung suspended in the southern sky. It was all so real. The floor shimmered as well, and then the hexes were gone, replaced with millions of the flat blue plants that made up a Quyth playing field, complete with white yard markers.

“Krakens, first-and-ten,” Pine said. “Boss-right set, split left, double-hook and post.”

More blue and silver shimmers flashed in the air, this time only ten feet from where the three men stood. Ten players dressed in Krakens’ uniforms materialized and moved to the line of scrimmage: the scurrying waddle of huge Ki linemen, the loping, graceful strides of three Sklorno receivers, the natural gait of the Human tailback and right end. The players moved like the real thing, although they were all slightly translucent. Their uniform colors seemed blurred by a slight blue haze.

A computer voice echoed through the chamber.

[DEFENSIVE SELECTION, PLEASE]

“Random,” Pine said as he walked up to the line, crouched, and held the ball in front of him as though he were ready to take a snap.

Another flash preceded the sudden appearance of players clad in the black, teal and blue colors of the Glory Warpigs. Quentin’s awe over the technology faded away. His strategic mind took over as he watched the holographic Warpigs players line up in a 3–4 with man-to-man coverage.

“Red fifteen, red fifteen,” Pine called out, barking out the signals so he could be heard over the crowd. Quentin felt his heart rate increase and the rush of adrenaline pump into his veins — he’d never seen anything like this. He could feel the stadium shake as the crowd’s intensity increased.

“Hut…. HUT!”

Pine dropped back five steps, then planted and bounced a half-step forward. He stood tall, looking downfield as his Sklorno receivers darted out, tightly covered by the Warpigs defensive backs. Pine threw the ball a split second before the right wide receiver suddenly cut back towards the line — a timing pattern. The receiver raised her long arms to catch the ball — it went right through the hologram, skipping and rolling down the field. The players vanished, although the crowd and the crowd noise remained.

[PASS COMPLETE. A GAIN OF SIX YARDS. SECOND AND FOUR]

Pine walked back to Quentin, who couldn’t stop himself from constantly looking around. “What do you think, rookie?”

“This is incredible. Is this where we practice?”

Pine shook his head. “No, we practice on the main field. But this is where you do your position work, and drill for each week’s game. This way you can practice sets over and over again against holographs that are just as fast as the opposition’s defensive backs. Practice squad players aren’t as much of a challenge.”

“Can I give it a try?”

Pine grabbed a football and tossed it to Quentin. “Be my guest. Let me set it up for you. It’s second-and-four, what do you want to run?”

Quentin smiled. “I want to go deep.”

Pine smiled — that condescending smile again — and nodded. “Wide set, snake package, double post. On two. Defense, cover two with woman-to-woman under.”

“You mean man-to-man.”

“The Sklorno are females, remember? Woman-to-woman. There you go, kid, I made it easy for you.”

The players materialized and ran to the line. Quentin walked forward, eyes wide with wonder. He crouched below the center as his eyes scanned the defense. The reality was such that he recognized Warburg at tight end, Scarborough at wide receiver, Hawick in the slot, two yards in and one yard back from Scarborough. He didn’t bother to look, but he knew a life-like image of number 47, tailback Mitchell Fayed, would be right behind him.

“Hut… hut!” The line surged forward. It sounded similar to a real line crash, but was just a bit stale and echoey. Quentin dropped back five steps, planted and eased into his standup, ball at the ready.

He watched the holo-Scarborough streak down the right sideline. The man-to-man (woman-to-woman, that is) coverage quickly fell behind. Just as the safety started to pick up the route, Quentin reared back and let the ball fly. It sailed through the air in a perfect, arching spiral, a brown missile framed against a bright purple sky. The ball looked on the money, but the safety moved faster than anything Quentin had ever seen on a football field.

“Damn it,” Quentin whispered as the holo-safety blurred in front of the holo-Scarborough, leapt twelve feet into the air, and reached for the ball. The ball continued down the field, bouncing off the flat leaves, but Quentin didn’t need the computer to tell him the results.

[PASS INTERCEPTED]

“Why’d you guys have to rig this? Quentin said. “You think that’s funny?”

“Rig it?” Pine said. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on, you saw how fast that safety closed. Nothing moves that fast.”

Pine and Yitzhak looked at each other, then started laughing.

“Welcome to the GFL, backwater,” Yitzhak said. “You’re going to love it here.”

Quentin glared. If they wanted to play stupid games with him, he’d show them. “Let me try that again.”

“Why, so you can fail again?” Hokor’s voice caught him by surprise. He turned, an unexpected sense of trepidation in his chest, as if he were a teenage boy caught in the middle of masturbating.

“End simulation!” Hokor barked. The tiny Quyth Leader marched towards Quentin as the field, the fans, the stadium and the players vanished, replaced by the clear dome and the sparkling stars.

“Barnes, what in the name of your primitive, backwater gods was that?”

Hokor’s fur seemed to stand on end, making him look thicker than normal. Quentin knew that was some instinctive reaction, evolutionarily designed to make Hokor look bigger, therefore more dangerous, but in reality it just made him look fuzzy, like a stuffed animal. Still, his voice had a tone of command Quentin’s previous coaches had never possessed. Or, perhaps more accurately, had never used, at least not on him.

“That was an interception, Coach,” Quentin said calmly.

“Why did you throw it?”

“Well, I thought I had Scarborough on the streak.”

“You thought? You thought? Don’t you know who the Warpigs’ safety is?”

Quentin assumed it was a rhetorical question, but Hokor seemed to wait for an answer. Quentin shrugged. “Nope.”

Hokor’s pedipalps quivered with anger. “You don’t know who it is, but you threw the pass anyway? You didn’t know that the Warpigs’ picked up Keluang in free agency?”

“Keluang?” “I thought he, I mean, she, played for the Hullwalkers, in Tier One.”

“Well now she plays for the Warpigs!” Hokor’s furry body shook with anger. “You stupid Human, you don’t even know who you’re playing against and you just blindly throw into coverage.”

Quentin smiled. “Take it easy, Coach. How am I supposed to know who’s on what team right now?” Quentin saw Pine and Yitzhak duck their heads in an effort to conceal their grins. Yitzhak hid his face in his hands and slowly shook his head.

“It’s your job to know,” Hokor said coldly. “You are a quarterback for the Ionath Krakens. We will not make it to the Tier Two tournament and therefore back into the glory of Tier One if my helpless quarterbacks don’t know everything there is to know about the opposition. You must be punished for this error. You will report to me after practice. And by tomorrow, you will know the defensive roster of all nine teams in the Quyth Conference.”

“By tomorrow? Come on, Coach — I figure that out on the field. Nobody knows all that stuff, nobody except sports reporters.”

Hokor turned to face Pine. “Who is the second-string free safety for the Sheb Stalkers?”

“Fairmont,” Pine answered instantly.

“What are her stats?

“Last recorded time in the 40 was a 3.2. She’s seventeen years old, an eight-year veteran, tends to jump the short routes and give extra space on deep routes for passing situations. She comes in as nickel back, but doesn’t like to hit big tight ends head-on.”

“Yitzhak, what is the strategy when playing her?”

“Passing situations, send tight ends on deep outs or deep curls. She doesn’t pressure the tight end enough, usually allowing for a little extra time to make a well-placed throw. Shouldn’t go deep on her if avoidable, but put the ball up high if you must because her vertical leap of twelve feet usually can’t compete with our receivers.”

Hokor turned back to Quentin. “That is why these men have been around the league for so long.”

Quentin sneered. “With all due respect Coach, just because you guys memorize one player doesn’t mean anything. I may be young, but I wasn’t born yesterday. You guys set that up just to impress me.”

Hokor’s fur rippled, and his pedipalps were a vibrating blur. “Pick a player.”

“Huh?”

“Pick a player.”

Quentin felt a sinking feeling. “From what team?”

“Any team in the Quyth Irradiated Division.”

“Okay, how about this? The second-string weak-side linebacker for the Bigg Diggers.”

“Ripok the Stonecutter,” Pine and Yitzhak said simultaneously.

“Last recorded time of 3.9 in the 40,” Pine said.

“Five-year veteran, the last three with the Diggers,” Yitzhak added.

“Very disciplined,” Pine said. “Plays excellent zone, makes excellent reads, but poor lateral movement due to leg-replacement surgery in 2671.”

“Use quick tight end out patterns,” Yitzhak said. “Or, bring wide receivers on crossing patterns and throw when they are equal to Ripok, because he can’t break on the ball as fast as they can.”

Quentin just stared. He didn’t know that much information about his own linebackers for the Raiders, let alone for another team. And these guys had ripped off the info without a second thought.

“Now are you impressed?” Hokor asked.

Quentin nodded dumbly.

“By tomorrow,” Hokor said, “know every player on the rosters. We will work on stats and tendencies throughout this week. Let us commence with our position meeting. We are six days from the season opener against the Woo Wallcrawlers. It will take us four days to reach Ionath. We will practice on the Touchback until we reach Ionath, then shuttle down to the field facility for on-field practices.”

BY THE TIME the position meeting ended, Quentin felt thoroughly annoyed. He had several days of busy work lined up — rote memorization of defensive players and schemes in addition to his offensive studies. And the real annoyance was that none of it really mattered. When he took the field, that’s when all this garbage would fade away, once Hokor saw what he could do.

After the position meeting, Quentin followed Pine and Yitzhak onto the dining deck. He had an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite explain. He’d never done ‘team functions’ with the Raiders, he’d always done his own thing. Here, he gathered, he was expected to dine with the team. The brightly lit room held over twenty tables, each surrounded by a variety of chairs designed for the different body types of Humans, Sklorno, Quyth Warrior and Quyth Leader. Unlike the corporate offices, there were none of the six-foot-long, table-like chairs made for Ki.

“We have to eat with the sub… I mean, the other races?”

Pine stared at him. “What, you can play a game with them, but you can’t eat with them?”

“You have to have the different races to win the game,” Quentin said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to eat with them, for High One’s sake.”

“It’s a league rule,” Yitzhak said. “All species must use the same dining facilities. Remember the Creterakians’ whole point of this league is to create a sense of ambassadorship amongst the races.”

“Are the Ki an exception, then?” Quentin didn’t see any of the monstrous creatures in the dining hall.

Yitzhak shuddered before he answered. “Their eating habits are a little, er, messy compared to the other races. They eat alone.”

“What do you mean, messy?”

“They butcher their food at the table,” Pine answered. “They eat it raw.”

Quentin looked at both men. “You’re kidding me, right?”

They shook their heads.

“It’s horrific,” Yitzhak said. “They kill the animal right there on the table. The table is even designed to catch all the blood so they can drink that, too.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s not the worst of it,” Yitzhak said. “That’s just the ones from the Ki Empire planets. The ones that come from the Ki Rebel Establishment planets, they don’t even bother to kill the animal before they start eating.”

Quentin stared dumbly. “You mean they eat it live?”

Yitzhak nodded.

“High One,” Quentin said. “They are demons.”

“Oh take your morality and vent it, Barnes,” Pine said. “They’re not demons, they’re different from Humans, that’s all. Meals are a major ritual for the Ki. It’s part of their culture, how they bond and crap like that.”

“But to eat a live animal? Only a mongrel race could do that!”

Yitzhak laughed. “Well then I guess Pine here is a mongrel.”

Pine smiled, but Quentin just stared, dumbfounded at the evil surrounding him. “You’ve broken bread with creatures that eat their food alive?”

Pine simply nodded.

Quentin felt his stomach churning at the thought, and suddenly found Pine’s blue skin more repulsive than ever. “What are you, blue-boy, some kind of Satanist?”

“And there it is,” Pine said with a knowing nod. “See, you are just like Warburg. Just another Purist racist. I’m a leader, Barnes. Ki don’t really accept you until you eat with them, until you fight and bleed with them. I do whatever it takes to make this team play as a whole. That’s something you’ll either figure out and succeed, or won’t figure out, and you’ll be gone.”

Quentin turned to Yitzhak. “And I suppose you’ve eaten living flesh, too?”

Yitzhak shuddered. “Couldn’t quite bring myself to do that, but I managed to sit through the whole thing, and drank some blood. You’ve got to see it to believe it — it’s worse than any horror holo you’ve ever seen.”

Quentin shook his head, then turned and walked away. Position meetings were over, and he didn’t have to spend any more time with these two barbarians. He spotted Warburg, sitting alone, a huge tray of food in front of him.

“Quentin,” Warburg called out. “Come let us break bread.”

Quentin walked up to the table and stared at the food. With all the activity he hadn’t eaten, and suddenly realized that he was famished.

“Where’s the chow?”

Warburg stuffed some potatoes into his mouth as he gestured to the back wall. A glass-enclosed counter ran the entire length, all fifty feet of it. Under the glass sat every kind of food Quentin could imagine. The counter was divided into sections, each about two feet in length. Above each section glowed a holographic symbol of a planet or system. Quentin didn’t recognize half the symbols, but the Purist Nation infinity symbol glowed a warm welcome. He grabbed a tray from an overhead shelf and started loading up: the mint mashed potatoes he’d seen Warburg eating, chicken breasts smothered in curry paste, pita bread and Mason gravy, the multi-colored broccoli that grew only on the planet Stewart, and a thick piece of chocolate cake.

Just to his right was the flag of the Planetary Union. The dishes that looked somewhat familiar, but were all things he’d never before tried. One of the dishes seemed to be some kind halved shell, with a raw, glisteny, grayish mass sitting inside. Raw food — typical blasphemy of non-Nation races. Quentin didn’t exactly say his twenty Praise High Ones each night, but that didn’t mean he was so sinful he’d eat raw food.

Just to his left was the glowing Five Star Circle of the Quyth Concordia. His lip wrinkled involuntarily in disgust at the brownish selections, many of which had more spindly legs than any insect he’d ever seen.

Quentin turned away from the strange foods and walked back to the table, rejoicing in the smells that drifted up from his plate.

“Did you see that disgusting garbage the Quyth eat?” Warburg asked as Quentin sat.

“Yes, what is that crap, bugs?”

Warburg shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care to know. High One knows it’s something unblessed and blasphemous. We’ll see what they eat when they’re burning in Hell.”

Quentin cut a big piece of chicken breast and bit into it — his eyes closed in pleasure at the taste.

“Food’s gotten pretty good since Gredok picked you up.” Warburg said with a smile.

“It wasn’t good before?”

Warburg shrugged. “It wasn’t bad. The cooks would try to make Nation dishes out of whatever Planetary Union or League of Planets crap they had laying around. Ever since they signed you, though, they’ve been bringing in the real deal from Nation freighters or whatever. Seems like Gredok and Hokor want to make you right at home.”

Quentin shoveled in some potatoes, marveling at the succulent taste. “I’m glad they feel that way. I haven’t had decent food since I got to the Combine.”

“I hope they start you right away,” Warburg said. “I can’t stand that shucking blue-boy Pine.”

Quentin nodded. “You know he told me he’s eaten raw flesh with the Ki?”

“What do you mean, eaten? That’s past tense. He does it every week. Low One take him, look at him now.”

Warburg gestured to the far end of the hall. Most of the tables held members of only one race, either Human, Quyth or Sklorno. But Pine sat at a table of Quyth Warriors, laughing, smiling, and stuffing some limp, brown, multi-legged creature into his mouth.

“I hope he likes the heat, considering where the High One will place him on Judgment Day,” Warburg said. “I mean, it’s one thing to have to talk to these demons, that’s just the nature of the game, but to sit down with them, to eat with them, and eat their barbaric food. It’s unforgivable.”

Quentin nodded and turned back to his plate. The sight of Pine chewing that brown thing had killed his appetite, but he kept eating anyway. Tomorrow was the first practice, and he’d need all of his strength if he was going to win the starting QB slot.